


Love Me Quietly

by min_T



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Geralt expresses himself physically instead of verbally, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has a Big Dick, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapped Jaskier, M/M, POV Alternating, Smut, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:53:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22807399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/min_T/pseuds/min_T
Summary: "There's only one reason for a heart to hurt that badly," Yennefer tells him, not unkindly.Geralt bears it, bears the truth of his heart in his hands, and Yennefer tells him."You love him."+++Geralt realizes a little too late what it is he really wants.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 53
Kudos: 1272





	1. Realization

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the day 5 prompt of the geraskier week challenge, "Realization." It's a little late, but whatevs. Chapter 2 should be out just later today. It's half done and twice as long as this, but I have the smut scene left to go so I'm posting this part first. Hopefully it's good enough to whet your appetites!

Yennefer is the last person Geralt is expecting right now. And yet, when his head swivels to identify the disturbance he feels in his campsite, what he sees is a portal - and then one expensively boot-clad foot stepping through, followed by another. 

"Geralt," she greets, all business, with a nod of her head. 

"Yennefer," Geralt acknowledges back, all bewilderment. 

"Hmm," Yennefer muses, scrutinizing him with her intense, violet gaze. "It seems I made a miscalculation."

His head tilts, a request for elaboration. She doesn't give him one, instead crossing one arm beneath her chest to rest her other elbow on it, hand coming up to her mouth as her thoughts focus inwardly, muttering to herself about the contents of some such or other spell.

"Yennefer," Geralt barks, unwilling to play along with whatever this is, and irritated about not being in the know. "Why are you here?"

"Hmm?" her head turns towards him, like she's only just registering his presence. Geralt grits his teeth. 

"Oh, sorry." She smirks, like she knows just how she's getting to him. "Nothing you need concern yourself with."

"Yennefer," Geralt growls her name this time, a warning.

"Scary," she teases, but when met only with Geralt's glare, she rolls her eyes. "Oh, alright then, you big brute."

She pulls out something from the bag at her side, a brown leather pouch that she unravels the ties of to expose a simplistic looking little wood box.

"Now, before you get angry, may I remind you that _you_ made a particular wish that irrevocably and _unwillingly_ leashed me to you - and I thought it only fair to have some kind of tether back."

"Is that -"

"It tracks you, yes." Yennefer interrupts him. "It also alerts me as to when you've been injured - or rather, when you're feeling _pain_ , as I've come to realize was my oversight."

"I'm not hurt." Geralt deadpans.

She cocks her head at him. "Not all pain is of the physical nature," she counters. "Tell me, Witcher, what were you just thinking about before I popped in?"

When Geralt doesn't respond, she casts her sights about his camp, assessing. "By the way, where's your adorable little puppy? Usually it's him that makes up for your general lack of sociability, but you appear to be suspiciously bard-less."

Geralt feels his jaw clench harder, and his fingers flex, entirely too telling for someone like Yennefer.

"Ah, I see." She observes, amusement clear.

"You see nothing," Geralt counters, childish and stubborn.

"What did you do to become so unbearable that the poor, pining creature finally had enough?" She questions, and Geralt feels the reigns of his temper beginning to fray at the edges. 

"I got rid of him."

"And when was this?" Yennefer responds, sharp.

Silence hangs between them, thick and revealing in Geralt's unwillingness to respond. 

Yennefer's eyes narrow. "Really? The same day?" She tsks, judging. "You really are something."

Geralt snarls.

"Don't you turn that on me," Yennefer plants her hands on her hips. "You're grumpy and lonely because you lashed out like the miserable bastard you are, and you chased off the one person who wanted you, just because you couldn't have what _you_ wanted. You're angry at yourself, not me."

"What do you know?" he spits.

Yennefer laughs, a knowing tinkle that grates over Geralt's nerves. She brandishes the box before her like a tell-all. 

"I know more than you think, and let me tell you, it's _not_ my fault that you only realized once it was too late what it was you _really_ wanted."

Her face softens, just a little around the edges of her eyes. "Trust me, I know what that's like. You're in good company."

Geralt's still too latched on to her previous words to even notice.

"...What?"

"You can drop the act with me," she says, waving the box back and forth. "I can _feel_ your pain, and this thing only activates when it's serious enough to warrant my attention. There’s been a low level pulse coming from it since I activated it, but it spiked rather suddenly today."

Geralt must look visibly bewildered, because Yennefer raises an eyebrow. "Do you even know what it is you're feeling? Heartbreak?"

Geralt stares her down, perhaps a bit petulantly. "Witchers don't feel."

Yennefer holds out the box even more insistently. "I'm no stranger to the idea that if you hold yourself above your feelings, they won't affect you. I learned the hard way that the heart is much more powerful than any strength of will."

Geralt, frustrated, snatches the box out of her grasp, fed up with her holding it over him as though it gives her insight to all his inner thoughts, even though it's so clearly _wrong._

He almost drops it, the sensation of it like white-hot metal fresh from the forge, burning in his hand. 

He _feels_ it, like a warped echo. It's familiar, in a way that he recognizes, but like an old memory that one can't quite place, blurred and distorted - something he's buried, beneath layers and layers of denial and repression.

It's _him_ , his pain, his...his... _f_ _eelings_.

There's no ignoring it now, bright and fresh and stinging, right in the center of his palm, and he almost gasps with it. It brings it all to the forefront, everything of that day, the day he sent Jaskier away - and every day since, like an additional layer of anguish, missing him even in his determination to never see him again.   
  
It sings to him his song, the one Jaskier wrote for him; the one he heard earlier today, from an unfamiliar voice coming from an unfamiliar face, that made him feel regret and self loathing and loss and _hurt,_ before he shuttered it all away with a snarl.

"There's only one reason for a heart to hurt that badly," Yennefer tells him, not unkindly.

Geralt bears it, bears the truth of his heart in his hands, and Yennefer tells him.

"You love him."

* * *

  
  


Tracking down the fool bard is no easy task. 

It's not as though he doesn't leave a trail, which is a slight concern that voices itself in the back of Geralt's mind; but the irritating little tramp does so in the form of infuriated cuckolds; cheated husbands and jealous nobles, and even the occasional irate father. 

None of them ever feel so generous as to willingly offer him information on Jaskier.

Which is alright after all, since using a blade as an easy incentive to loosen their tongues works well to expel some of his excess internal energy, swirling around far too near the surface now that it's been exposed to him. 

Believe it or not, sudden revelations of the deeply emotional nature are not a common occurrence for witchers, so there's really not much else he can do with it. He's never...never really had to address something such as this before, but he's not so hard headed as to deny once again something that's looked him dead in the eye.  
  
  
He loves Jaskier.   
  
  
He loves him, and wants him something fierce.   
  
  
He contemplates it, finding it strangely easy to accept. There’s a part of him that’s always known, he supposes - but he could never formulate the words for it, never coagulate the thoughts and feelings together into a definitive shape he could label; instead he let them slip away like liquid, waves washing over him as they happened, before letting them collect behind the wall he erected. Now they’re all let loose, a veritable ocean sweeping forth from a broken dam, and he can see the full enormity of them. 

He doesn’t dwell long on wondering about the reverse.  
  
 _  
“He loves you back, you know. How many years did he trail after you, dedicated with a single hearted devotion that produced countless, unfortunate little diddies? Even when you wouldn’t look twice at him. Idiot.” _ Yennefer had laughed. _“If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”_

It’s true enough, he supposes, as Jaskier had never really been shy about how he felt about any given thing, wearing his heart on his blasted sleeve and getting it broken repeatedly, only to recover a few days later and fall in love all over again with the next unlucky soul.   
  
  
Besides his long time affair with his music, his only other passion to ever last so long was Geralt. Thinking about the meaning behind _that_ is almost more impacting than the understanding of his own feelings, crossing the line into theterritory of _"too much"_ for him to stay on the topic without feeling like he’s being punched in the gut.  
  
  
It’s _all_ a bit too much, overwhelming and breathtaking; so after he moves past basic acceptance, he sets his mind towards finding Jaskier and ends it there, unable to dedicate so much time towards dealing with things he previously had considered a non-issue.

He approaches it as he does everything; he throws the full force of his physicality at it, overworking his body until he's too tired to ruminate on anything his mind wants to linger over for too long.

He rushes through town after town, only slowing his pace to allow for Roach to rest. He skips on sleep as much as his body will allow, longer than he usually does. Longer than is good for him. 

He drags men from their beds, shrieking in terror, and full of nothing but venom towards the man in question. He forcefully pries the clues from their lips and moves on to the next, not waiting, not giving himself the time to really question what it is that he's doing. 

He's running on far more instinct than sense, or he might have premeditated the outcome of his brazen behavior. 

When Jaskier's trail finally runs cold, petering out in a moderately sized town just south of Novigrad, it does so with all the pomp and circumstance that he would expect of Jaskier.

"He's not here," says the Viscount, smug edge of his mouth curling in such a way as to communicate his blatant lie, as he shifts on his cushioned seat, reaching for his goblet of wine. "Or better yet, I don't even know him."

Geralt growls and reaches for the hilt of his sword, but so do the lord's guards. There's far too many of them to take on in the middle of the town without risking too much collateral damage, and too much negative attention besides; he'd be run out by the villagers for attacking humans before he even gets what he wants. 

He retreats from the noble's gaudy tent, none too willingly, and heads back for Roach where he's left her at his camp on the edge of town. If need be, he'll wait for the pompous prick to finish his business and simply follow him when he leaves town in his prissy little coach; away from the protection of witnesses, save for his guard - who will become not much more than sword fodder if they dare stand between Geralt and the answers he seeks.  
  
  
He doesn’t get half way back before he notices the tail on him, quite ineffectively rolling behind bushes and ducking behind trees, all too audible to his witcher ears.  
  
  
He stops at the next decent puddle he passes, bending down and making like he’s going for a drink, and he waits for the man to foolishly get too close as he uses a cupped palm of water to observe behind him.  
  
  
One hand sneaks towards the hilt of a dagger hidden in his boot, and when he hears the tell-tale crunch of a footstep on the dirt and spots a reflected flash of silver, he swivels, darting forward with a surge of speed the man has no hope of dodging. He tackles the him, dagger poised threateningly at his throat.  
  
  
“What do you want?” He demands.  
  
  
The man chokes on his fear, the stench of it filling Geralt’s nostrils. Just like them all.  
  
  
“Y-you,” He stutters out, trying to pull his bare throat away from the dig of the sharp blade. “My Lord told me to follow you, after you came, and then ambush you.”   
  
  
“He was expecting me?” Geralt demands, knife pressing just close enough to draw a thin line of red.   
  
  
The man whimpers, but nods in affirmation.   
  
  
“How?”   
  
  
“T-the bard,” He answers, eyes squeezing shut. “He knew you would come for him. You’ve been kicking up a real fuss about him, drawing attention, and he said - said it was his chance.”  
  
  
“Jaskier?” Geralt hisses, a chill running through his spine. “Where is he?”

After a nearly incoherent set of directions to some sort of abandoned shack, half of it lost to incessant blubbering and pleads for his life, Geralt hefts the pathetic excuse of a soldier to his feet and holds the dagger to the small of his back, forcing him to guide him to the location himself.  
  
  
When he reaches the apparent destination, he drops the knife, and the man scampers off in the opposite direction, tail between his legs. Geralt pays him no mind, instead assessing the building before him.  
  
Geralt has to give it to him, the lord whose name he never bothered to learn; he hasn’t left the place unguarded. It’s absolutely _teeming_ with men, soldiers for hire wearing pristine, brightly colored uniforms that match the lord’s family colors. Unfortunately for them, Geralt knows no amount of bodies that will equip them well enough to face a witcher, and especially not when he can use the space they’re in to his advantage.  
  
  
The shack they’re occupying isn’t small, but it’s not particularly large, either. It’s enough to house all the men, and presumably holds an underground area where they’re storing Jaskier - _unharmed,_ or so help him - but it’s small enough that being so full, it will limit the range of motion any one of them might have, for caution of hitting one of their own.  
  
  
He makes methodical work of the men patrolling outside, with efficient blows to the backs of their skulls with the hilt of his sword; there’s few windows on the building, so once they’re taken care of, quickly and without notice, there’s no one to warn the men inside.  
  
  
It doesn’t matter overly much, save that Geralt has no wish to be rushed by all of them outside; but he doesn’t bother to hide his entrance once he breeches the door.  
  
  
There’s a general commotion of surprise at his figure, men scrambling to their fighting stances and yelling - clearly not having expected a lone sword to come against their unending rows of them, gleaming like razor sharp, steel teeth in the mouth of a great, wooden beast. Geralt grins, humorless and intimidating, and he charges.   
  
  
The men don’t even put up a particularly good fight, the sheer volume of them making the battle sound far more impressive than it is. Not that even better trained fighters would make a difference, not when Geralt knows there is less than a few walls between him and Jaskier.   
  
  
He makes his way eventually, through each section of the building, swiping through body after body, until he spots the hole in the soft dirt. He drops himself through it, bypassing the ladder, and swivels on the last group of guards, sword at the ready. They fill a long running hall, that leaves only one door at the end of it. _Jaskier._

  
The rest is entirely a blur as Geralt thinks of nothing but _getting through that door_ , and when he does, knocking it clean down with a kick to the last few men standing in his way, skewered through, his eyes frantically search the room’s contents for any sign of Jaskier.   
  


When he spots him, _finally,_ his arms are chained tight to extend above his head to a mold-ridden post. He identifies no visible injuries, but that doesn't do much to quell the surge of blinding rage over seeing Jaskier restrained as such, vulnerable and looking downright _defeated_ , with his chin bowed against his chest.  
  


His attention zeroes in, and his surroundings no longer matter, even after the men he’s failed to kill come pouring in after him; they’re a mere afterthought for his subconscious to deal with, and he bats away swords as if they’re no more than flies as he marches his way towards Jaskier with single minded intent.  
  
 _Mine._


	2. Acquisition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brooo I wrote y'all a goddamn poem, better be grateful

Jaskier is barely awake when he hears the ruckus, men shouting and blades clashing outside the door of the room he’s currently in. He groans and instinctually reaches to feel for the sore spot on the back of his head, only to find his wrists restrained and bruising slightly in the grip of metal chains, looped tightly and slung around something overhead, pulling his arms squarely above him.  
  
 _What the hell have I done this time?_ He pouts to himself, trying to recall who he might have possibly slept with in this particular town, and who that person might have been related to in order to warrant so much trouble.  
  
The noise outside the door is growing louder, quite clearly morphing into the sound of _death_ as shouts are choked off amidst the ringing song of metal-on-metal. His heart rate spikes as a tendril of fear runs through him, properly.  
  
He struggles against his restraints, now quite unwilling to just wait it out in order to try and talk his way into freedom, as per his usual _modus operandi_ \- because whatever is on the other side of that door is _dangerous._ When the chains refuse to budge, all his wriggling only serving to produce an ominous _creak_ from the roof, it leaves him with the new fear of it falling down over his head, and he panics into a total still.  
  
 _I am going to die. Oh, gods! I’m going to die!_ His mind flashes to Geralt, as it’s been conditioned into when faced with his imminent demise. He has to shake it off, reminding himself that Geralt is no longer going to be coming to to save his perpetual bard-in-distress.  
  
The thought hurts, worse than the lump on his head or the strain on his wrists, but he has to focus past it; because Geralt isn’t here, and he needs to be self reliant, consider his options.  
  
 _Play dead._ His brain supplies him, and for lack of anything better, he does - dropping his neck so his head hangs as lax as possible, releasing all the tension in his body so he is supported entirely by his arms.  
  
It’s painful, but he bites his lip and doesn’t move, doesn’t even _breathe,_ until the door finally crashes down under the strain of too many limp and butchered bodies.  
  
“You’re outnumbered, Witcher! Give up now!” Cries a voice, and Jaskier’s eyes open with a jerk, head snapping up in surprise, plan all but forgotten.  
  
There are men filing in the door by the dozen, lending credence to the unidentified voice’s claim, but it doesn’t seem to matter; because slicing his way right through them as if their armor amounts no more an obstacle than butter to a hot knife, is _Geralt._  
  
Jaskier finds himself short of breath again, but this time for an entirely different reason.  
  


Geralt looks angry, angrier than Jaskier has ever seen him, really, because almost the entirety of it is contained; but it's visible, behind his eyes and in the clench of his jaw, and by the precise, controlled movements of his hands. However, none of that is manifested in his expression, not bearing any of the twisted fury or expelling the snarled growls that Jaskier has come to expect from an angry witcher. This is much more serious, and markedly more deadly, he observes, as bodies fall around him, one by one, with hardly any more effort than it takes to make a step.

He simply cuts down anything and everything in his path, with a command and grace Jaskier has quite missed, if he’s honest, but it does seem a bit overkill for a handful of mere humans that don't even stand a chance. Jaskier still thinks he's glorious - yellow eyes glinting with intensity and wrath and something else unnameable, as his footwork dances around falling bodies.

Geralt's sword arches, torchlight gleaming on the parts exposed by lack of blood, as he slices through the chest of another guard. 

It's the last one, Jaskier realizes with a sudden jolt; and now Geralt's turned all that energy around to focus on _him,_ the only one left alive in the room. His chest looks like it’s heaving air much too quickly, and it takes a moment for Jaskier to realize it's not because he's breathing too hard, but that it's shaking with the effort to contain the magnitude of whatever is trying to come out of him. 

There's another swing of the sword, too fast for Jaskier's eyes to even track. Before he can realize how near his face it came to even wince, his shoulders sing with blessed relief from the sudden slack of the broken chain, his liberated hands falling to his lap. 

Geralt just stands there, shaking and beautiful and silent, and Jaskier really doesn't know what to say. He stares back in his uncertainty, but doesn't quite meet Geralt's gaze, eyes landing somewhere in the middle of his chest. 

There's a moment where Jaskier suddenly remembers the reason he's missed Geralt so much, why he hasn't seen him in so long, and he thinks Geralt is going to spin on his heel and walk right back out now that the job is done. It _would_ be very Geralt. 

But that's not what happens. What happens is that Geralt extends a hand, hesitant and wavering, like he's reaching for something, but he's not sure - and then he's dropping to his knees, carefully, right in front of Jaskier's lap. 

Both his hands grab this time, pulling Jaskier's palms into his own, and he just. Holds them. 

Jaskier is too gobsmacked to do anything but let him. 

The calluses on Geralt's fingers are rough, catching on his skin, but his ministrations are not. He traces the lines of his palms with his thumbs, passing over the purpling edges of his wrists, before pressing them into their centers, like a subtle reassurance of his presence.

Something about the act seems to settle Geralt, the violent shivers of his body receding until he's as unreadable as ever; still, and silent, and familiar. There's something that pulls between them in that moment, because Jaskier feels it go taught - like a string stretched too far, tied right around his heart. His throat clogs with some sort of emotion and his vision goes blurry, and he thinks, O _h, I'm crying._

Geralt seems to realize this too, because he drops Jaskier's hands after that, and Jaskier snatches them back to himself, quite unnerved about whatever is going on with the witcher, and embarrassed about his wet face. 

"Jaksier," Geralt rasps, and now he does flinch. He fully expects that Geralt is probably going to lecture him, likely on his carelessness in offending the wrong people again and repeatedly getting himself into trouble like this, or about being so cowardly and weak that he starts blubbering even now that he's been rescued.

The speech never comes, though. In his flinch, his eyes close, and he doesn't see Geralt move; but he feels him, feels his body crowd against him, warm and, _gods,_ everything Jaskier has been thinking of for _months._

Geralt's arms are around him, and one hand encircles the back of his head, guiding him forward so that he rests in the crook of his neck. That's where he holds him, soft and, of all things, _comforting_ \- and Geralt allows him to keep crying, tears flowing into his collar as Jaskier's chest is wracked with far too much emotion for him to process.

"I thought you weren't coming. I thought I was going to die."

Geralt grunts, right into his ear. "Sorry."

For some reason, that one word only makes everything worse. 

"I thought I was going to die, and I would never see you again." Jaskier gasps out, between a sob. 

"Sorry." Geralt repeats, roughly. 

Everything swirling through Jaskier wants to spill out all at once, and his guard is too stripped from the crying and the sheer _gentleness_ of Geralt's handling to do anything but let it.

"You broke my heart," he confesses, muffled by Geralt's leather and cracking under the strain of tears.

Geralt's hands flex where they're holding him, a spasm that's much more telling on a witcher than any full blown expression of emotion on a human would be. 

"Sorry," he says a third time; much quieter, almost whispered, almost lost to the sound of Jaskier's sniffling. 

Jaskier lets go at that, that third time cutting loose something that he had been holding back, some little restraint that had bound his more deeply set urges and instincts, even as long ago as when he'd first met Geralt. He clings to him, unrestrained, desperate, hands clawing for purchase on the slick leather of his back, drawing the man as close as he can. Geralt only holds on tighter. 

It gets easier after that - easier to breathe, easier to force his body into compliance and some measure of composure; and once he's properly collected himself and the air between them stills, Geralt finally pulls back, just a bit. 

Their proximity is still a little overwhelming, as golden eyes search out his own, molten with concern.

"Are - are you -" Geralt stumbles out, " - alright? Hurt, anywhere?"

For some reason that prompts a laugh out of Jaskier, eyes squeezing shut so he can feel the last of his tears - still clinging to his lashes - spill out.

"I'm fine," he manages, dragging a dirty sleeve across his face, smearing away any traces of his little breakdown, ignoring the fading ache in his skull and the light mottling on his wrists. Minor inconveniences, really.

Geralt grunts, but he sounds pleased.

"Actually," Jaskier tests out, feeling cheeky. "Ooh, ouch, my legs. They’re horribly maimed, and I don't think I'll be able to walk at all. I suppose you'll have to carry me out."

Geralt looks at him, head tilted and mouth quirked, and Jaskier thinks it seems like he actually _might,_ if he really asked for it.

In fact, his expression looks so incredibly, jarringly _fond_ that he doesn't even know what to do with it, his own cheeks growing disconcertingly warm.

He scrambles to his feet, excuse forgotten, entirely too flustered from a mere _look.  
_  
  
“Well, I certainly don’t want to spend another moment in here than I have to,” He exclaims, far too quickly and a little too loud for the empty room. He tries to head for the door, but finds there isn’t a clear path that isn’t blocked by dead bodies or, worse, puddles of blood, and he wrinkles his nose.  
  
  
“Really, Geralt? Did you have to make such a _mess?_ ” He fusses, and he hears Geralt grunt behind him with a noise that sounds like it’s trying hard not to be a laugh.  
  
  
There’s a split second as he considers ruining his boots, but he doesn’t get to finish the thought as he feels a warm grip on his belt. All his weight gets suddenly lifted off his feet, and he’s manhandled over Geralt’s shoulder like a damn child, hoisted by the back of his pants.  
  
  
Well. He _had_ told Geralt to carry him.  
  
  
Geralt crosses the room in a few large strides and carries him up the ladder, heading out of the house before Jaskier can even muster up the voice to object, jostled around backwards with a _wonderful_ upside down view of Geralt’s backside. Once through the fromt door, he sets him down, none too gently on a - _thankfully_ \- blood and corpse free spot on the ground outside.  
  
  
The treatment has done nothing for the flush staining Jaskier’s complexion, and he finds himself squeaking as he tries to respond. This whole day has just been so _strange,_ going from a kidnapping to an overly-handsy Geralt, who has touched Jaskier more times today than he thinks he ever voluntarily has in his entire _life.  
_ _  
__  
_“I have so many questions,” Is all he really manages to get out.  
  
  
“Not here,” Geralt rebuffs him.  
  
  
“I should still have my room, I paid in advance for three days.” Jaskier offers, and Geralt gestures towards the road, letting Jaskier take the lead.

Geralt waits the whole way; and that _is_ what he's doing. Jaskier can tell from the coiled tension he reads in the line of his body as he glances back, anticipatory and ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. Which he does, as soon as they're sequestered away in Jaskier's abandoned room in the broken down little excuse of an inn. 

He covers nearly the entire length of Jaskier's body with his own - drawing close nearly before Jaskier even has the door fully shut - arm like a thick branch, pressing against the back of his waist, pulling him ever closer so their breaths can mingle and meet. Jaskier feels a spike of sweet shock when their lips make contact, setting his nerve ends alight and spreading like wildfire through his core, melting into a flaming pit of desire somewhere deep in his gut.

Only in his wildest, most coveted _dreams._

The kiss is hungry, _devouring_ , gone deep entirely too quickly and - dare he even say it - tinged with desperation. It draws a moan out of him almost instantly, toes curling in his boots.

Surprised as he is, he manages to reciprocate. He lets it go on, self indulgent and basking in it for a touch too long before finally pulling back. He immediately misses the feeling of Geralt's tongue in his mouth.

"Wait, wait -" he insists, breathless already. "You need to explain - not that i wasn't enjoying that, mind you, because I very much _was,_ " He interrupts himself to assure Geralt at the flash of insecurity he thinks he spies on his face. "But _what the hell is going on?_ What just happened? Why did you come for me?"

Geralt grunts, already leaning back in towards Jaskier's lips. "I'm trying to tell you."

Jaskier lets him reclaim his mouth, eyes blown wide. Then he relents fully, his mouth spreading into a slow smile, even as it's otherwise occupied. He figures Geralt _is_ trying to communicate as much, as best he knows how; and frankly, he's more than amenable to this particular method. 

  
Geralt maneuvers them as they kiss, drawing Jaskier away from the door towards the other side of the room, pressing him backwards, step by step, until his knees hit something firm.  
  
  
When they crash to the bed, Jaskier doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but it certainly isn’t the collapse of Geralt’s full weight above him, suddenly boneless.  
  
  
“G-geralt,” he wheezes out, finding it hard to breathe. “What-”  
  
  
“Sorry,” Geralt mumbles, and Jaskier wonders if it’s going to become his new mantra. There’s a moment’s pause, but Geralt doesn’t move.  
  
  
“Sorry,” He repeats, and Jaskier almost rolls his eyes. “I haven’t slept for days.” With the adrenaline gone now, relief coursing through him, the exhaustion has begun to seep in, Jaskier supposes.  
  
  
“You’re ridiculous. Why would you do that?”  
  
  
“Was looking for you.” Geralt grunts the partial reply, rolling over to the side, eyes closed.  
  
  
“Oh,” Jaskier breathes, suddenly touched.  
  
  
He looks at him, this utterly _stupid_ man, forehead creased with the effort of keeping himself awake, hair fanned around him like a damn halo, and inspiration strikes.  
  
  
“Tell you what, I’ll let you make it up to me if you just lay there and let me do all the work.”  
  
  
“Hmm?” Geralt props one eye open.  
  
  
“Don’t worry,” Jaskier offers a lascivious wink. “I’ve been told I’m quite skilled.”

* * *

  
  
Jaskier makes quick work of proving his words, stripping Geralt’s armor and dispensing of the buttons on his pants with a speedy nimbleness that speaks of years and years of practice. Geralt lets him, tired and curious, propping himself up on his forearms to watch.  
  
  
When Geralt’s pants are loose enough to wedge down his body, Jaskier does so, rearranging himself between the slight spread of Geralt’s legs after dumping the excess leather onto the floor.  
  
  
“Feel free to sing my name as loudly as you please,” Jaskier teases him, blue eyes glancing up from his dark lashes, mischievously. Geralt opens his mouth to retort, but it cuts off into a short gasp as Jaskier’s mouth envelops him.  
  
  
It’s not a sensation Geralt frequently experiences; even in a brothel with the most adventurous of coquettes, his size is intimidating. Jaskier has the benefit of him not being quite up to full size, but that’s quickly remedied; and still Jaskier does not pull back, contributing his hands to the impressive girth that does not allow him to fully swallow.  
  
  
And Jaskier _is_ skilled. It causes a good deal of questioning for Geralt, as he’s only ever witnessed him pursuing women - but Jaskier promptly chases away any ubiquitous thoughts other than _fuck,_ and _that feels good._  
  
  
He applies just the right amount suction that it makes it difficult for Geralt to retain his normally easy grasp of control over his body, hips begging to buck forward, thighs tensing with restraint.  
  
  
He doesn’t make much noise, petty enough that he doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction; but that concern quickly falls by the wayside as Jaskier edges him closer and closer with clever twists of his tongue and concentrated bobs of his head.

  
  
It’s only when he feels the tell tale tightening of his gut, the building crescendo of warm, wet waves of pleasure, that he moves - hand finding Jaskier’s hair and tugging back in warning.  
  
  
Jaskier doesn’t budge, and his gaze connects with the witcher’s. The fading sunlight comes through the window in receding beams, bouncing off his eyes and making the blue, _blue_ of them glint with a stubborn determination, as Geralt groans and comes down his throat.

  
  
“That,” Jaskier comments, with an over-enunciated _pop_ of his lips off Geralt's cock and a backhanded wipe over his lips, “Was a rather magnificent display, I say even if it _is_ half a pat on my own back.”  
  
  
Geralt awards him a drowsy smile, eyelids falling closed as he collapses back under the twofold weight of sleep - from both a satisfying orgasm, and the natural call of his body to replenish his long-diminished energy.  
  


* * *

Geralt looks peaceful, his form lax and sweaty from exertion, his breath evening out into a slow, steady rhythm.  
  
  
 _Unacceptable._  
  
  
“Ah, ah,” Jasker admonishes Geralt with a light _pat_ to his cheek. “If you think that's all there was to my proposed condition, you’re sorely mistaken. We have a ways to go if you want us to be even.”  
  
  
Geralt grunts - a minor protest - and Jaskier can’t help the predatory grin that overtakes him. “You told me once of the legendary virility of witchers. I’m going to witness it firsthand, or else I’m going to write a particularly insulting song about you.”  
  
  
Geralt finally opens his eyes again, only to roll them at him before sliding them back shut. “You wouldn’t,” he denies. “It would ruin years of effort, to the opposite effect.”  
  
  
Jaskier huffs without any real feeling behind it. “Alright, you called my bluff; but now you’re awake.”  
  
  
Jaskier re-positions himself over Geralt, placing both palms on either side of his head to bear his weight so he can lean down, noses nearly touching.  
  
  
Geralt blinks his eyes back open at the sensation of Jaskier’s proximity.  
  
  
“Hello,” Jaskier greets him.  
  
  
“Mmm.” Geralt acknowledges.  
  
  
“So here’s the thing,” Jaskier starts, “I really was hoping to have a go at that _lovely bottom_ tonight, and seeing as you’re nearly plum out of commission, it really seems the best course of action to get what we both want.”  
  
  
“What we both want?” Geralt asks, with a twitch of his brow.  
  
  
“Well, that is assuming you’re half a decent bed partner and you _do_ actually want me to get off some point during all this,” He punctuates with a pout and a surreptitious palming of the front of his trousers.   
  
  
Geralt sighs and it sounds like a concession, prompting Jaskier to reward him with a dazzling smile. “That’s the spirit!”  
  
  
It’s all fun and games to go on with nearly one-sided bantering to a pretense of reluctance, but the truth is Jaskier expects he doesn’t really need all that much convincing. Geralt isn’t one to let Jaskier do anything he doesn’t explicitly want to do. If there’s one thing he plans for tonight, it’s to make sure Geralt forgets even entertaining the idea of acting like he doesn’t want it. He’ll make him _beg._  
  
  
He almost regrets having to get up to fetch the bottle of lavender oil he has squirreled away in one of his packs - _almost,_ but he’s too thankful to the stuff to really feel it. On the way back, he divests himself of all of his clothing, leaving between them only a simple black shirt, still on Geralt.  
  
He rather likes the look, Geralt like that without his pants. _Hmm._  
  
  
“Jaskier.” Geralt snaps him out of his apparent trance, stading stock still and dreamily looking on. He stumbles back to the bed with a jerk, bottle in hand.  
  
  
“Alright, I know you’ve slept with actual mages before, but I can promise you nothing will compare to the magic these babies can produce,” Jaskier wiggles his fingers.  
  
  
“You’re making me change my mind,” Geralt groans, and Jaskier can’t help the laugh that catches in his chest, knowing he's doing nothing of the sort.  
  
  
He uncorks the bottle perhaps more aplomb than is due after such a bad joke, but Geralt doesn’t make any more comments about changing his mind when Jaskier reaches his liberally coated fingers down to his entrance.  
  
  
He doesn’t press right in, not at first, taking the time to drag and tease; hinting at what’s to come just to see Geralt harden a bit, for the second time within the hour. When he deems Geralt appropriately responsive enough, that’s when he goes for it, first finger breaching with less resistance than he’d been expecting.  
  
  
“You’re relaxed,” Jaskier observes.  
  
  
“Can you blame me?” Geralt counters.  
  
  
“No,” Jaskier grins, “And I’ll take that as a compliment.”  
  
  
Jaskier spends time getting Geralt used to the feeling of him, even though he’s sure he doesn’t need as long as he allows him; but watching him is enjoyable enough that he has no desire to rush, despite what his body might be urging.  
  
  
Geralt is open to him, his thick thighs a casual sprawl as Jaskier kneels between them, keeping his movements measured and slow. His shirt, half undone, offers a tantalizing peek to the chest that lies underneath, and his neck beckons him as Geralt tilts his head to the side, humming his enjoyment into the pillow.  
  
  
Jaskier caves, leaning forward to suck at the spot at the juncture of his shoulder that is enticing him, at the same time he decides to insert a second finger. He lets Geralt adjust to that one too, but not for too long before he switches over to scissoring, focusing him more on the stretch than the sensation.  
  
  
Geralt keens, ever so subtly in that low, quiet, subdued way of his, and it only spurns Jaskier on all the more. By the time he adds a third finger, he knows his own cock is about drooling for it, the head of Geralt’s own now flushed and nearly in the same state. Three fingers is about the trick to draw a proper reaction out of Geralt, because he goes from controlled to _commanding,_ body twitching with the right thrusts and twists of his fingers.  
  
  
“Do it already,” he barks, and Jaskier sticks his tongue out in concentration, looking for -  
  
  
“Ah!” Geralt cries in surprise, caught too quickly to muffle it. _There it is._  
  
  
Jaskier withdraws after that, not wanting Geralt to get all worked up too quickly, and he hastily smears the rest of the oil over his own prick before lining himself up.  
  
  
“Ready?” He questions, and Geralt musters up the energy to glower at him for it.  
  
  
“Right, stupid question,” he mutters to himself, bracing.  
  
  
Entering Geralt is a whole new level of feeling Jaskier hadn’t anticipated, hadn’t conceived of even in his many, _many_ fantasies.  
  
  
It’s one thing to be greeted by tight, slick heat; it’s quite another for that warmth to belong to a certain white-haired witcher, body glowing a faint golden color in the vestiges of the setting sun’s rays, near every inch of muscle on glorious, special display for _him_ as he tosses his head back, throat bared, hair fanning beneath him.  
  
  
Gods, Jaskier’s in love. Many men can profess such things with their cocks buried inside of someone else, but for Jaskier, he couldn’t care less; he could look on, never once moving, just _watching_ Geralt look just like this, and it would be enough.  
  
  
Clearly, it’s not enough for Geralt. Jaskier feels a kick at his backside, urging him on as he realizes Geralt probably has had plenty of time to adjust by now, if his enhanced body really needed much at all.  
  
  
Never let it be said that Jaskier is a self interested lover; he seeks out Geralt’s mouth and that particular spot inside him in one smooth motion, adjusting his speed and angle according the jumps in Geralt’s pulse, strong and clear in his wrist where Jaskier grasps it, hand eventually trailing down so their fingers can link. It should not say as much as it does that Jaskier's heart soars a little higher over the sensation of Geralt squeezing his hand back, even as he's gyrating his hips into him.  
  
  
It’s not easy keeping pace, especially with Geralt meeting him back, thrust for thrust; and more than a few times he feels himself slipping, nearly losing himself to it.  
  
  
He focuses more of his attention to his mouth, Geralt’s tongue inside, exploring, just in the hopes of staving off his release for a little longer; but it’s not too long before he feels the familiar pressure building at the base of his spine.  
  
  
Luckily, Geralt doesn’t seem too far off himself - his own member spilling out copiously between them as Jaskier makes sure his angles are _just right -_ and Jaskier buries a groan into Geralt’s mouth as he notices. He pulls his hand free of Geralt’s so he can slip it between them, palming at the tip and smearing at the fluid, before sliding down his length with slicked ease to create a pleasant friction.  
  
  
Geralt’s biting at his lip now, Jaskier’s pace increasing as much as he can allow while maintaining the very last of his control, and he watches him pull back to let loose a low moan.

“Jas-” he cuts off, and that’s it; Jaskier’s lost in a sudden burst of white, ears filling with the sound of Geralt calling his name. When his vision swims back to him, slowly but surely, he realizes Geralt is spent all over their stomachs as well - white stark in contrast to black material - and he lets out a very satisfied purr.  
  
  
Withdrawing is a bit messy, but necessary; he scowls, because the _mess_ afterwards is always his least favorite part. Geralt catches his eye with a knowing look, and pulls off his now ruined shirt to offer it for the clean up. He accepts it, wiping at his half-concious witcher first, and gets treated to Geralt mumbling, “Well, now I know one way to get you to shut up for an extended period of time,” for his efforts.  
  
  
Jaskier wants to retort, wants to jibe back and pretend to be offended, but he doesn’t - there’s something in Geralt’s face, already fading away into the realm of sleepy oblivion, that looks so wonderfully, blissfully _happy,_ and Jaskier thinks he could take all the verbal abuse in the world quite willingly, if it would just preserve that look on Geralt’s face.  
  
He detracts himself from the tangle of their bodies, as clean as is possible with only a cotton shirt and no water. His is chest warm, and he's too completely besotted to even bother with thinking about a bath in that moment.  
  
He tries to relax like Geralt, to let the same promise of slumber draw him in, but he can’t. There’s _words_ bouncing around in his skull, forming into lines, and merging into stanzas; verses begging to be let loose.  
  
Jaskier leans over Geralt, fingers stretching for purchase of his lute, haphazardly propped by the side of the bed. He seats it in his lap with a pleased little sigh, greeting her with a stroke to the neck like an old friend.

Geralt mumbles something about contending for Jaskier’s attention, and with a hunk of _wood_ at that.  
  
  
Jaskier snorts and turns to tuning a few strings, watching Geralt relax further into the sound when he starts strumming, playing around until he evokes some semblance of a melody. He starts with a gentle murmur, forming word like sounds to fit with the rhythm, before opening his mouth:  
 **  
 _  
There is truth in your eyes,_ _  
__And affection in your touch;_ _  
__You can’t speak the words,_ _  
__But your kiss says so much;_ _  
__  
__So embrace me, tenderly,  
_ ** **_My Dear;_ _  
__My skin waits for your confession,  
_ ** **_Sweet talk me in ways I can’t hear;_ **

**_Love me, Quietly  
_ ** **_Quietly_ ** _  
__  
_  
Geralt looks up, something like mirth sparkling in his drooping eyes, even as his face remains unimpressed. “Why do you assume I can’t say it?”  
  
  
Jaskier levies a disbelieving stare. “You mean we _didn’t_ just have the world’s most mind blowing, earth shattering sex _just_ so you could avoid having a heartfelt conversation about your feelings? Your incredibly overpowering, romantic, lovey-dovey, _entirely wrapped around my little finger now_ feelings?”  
  
  
Geralt snorts. “You’re not playing that in public.”  
  
  
Jaskier gasps in offence and holds his lute to his chest, protectively. “Of course not! I never kiss and tell. Well…” he amends with a slight wince, “Not when it _matters._ And clearly that one countess really didn’t, and neither did the barmaid from Temeria-”  
  
  
As Jaskier continues to list the - apparently, many - exceptions to his rule, Geralt begins to silently chuckle, which prompts Jaskier to puff his cheeks out with a pout. “And just what are you laughing at?”  
  
  
Geralt shakes his head, breathing out into a calm, steady gaze, eyes full of affectionate certainty. “I love you.”  
  
  
“O-oh,” Jaskier stutters, a little blown away. And then, “Wait, no, that’s not fair!”  
  
  
Geralt raises his eyebrows as Jaskier grows increasingly more distressed. “I can’t believe it! _You said it first._ What kind of world are we living in where _you_ say it first?”  
  
  
Geralt huffs another quiet snort, diving in to bury his nose in Jaskier’s neck. “You still haven’t said it.” He reminds, words pressed to exposed skin.  
  
  
That shuts Jaskier up. He peers down his nose at Geralt, expression going as soft as his heart, melting into the touch.  
  
  
“I love you too, you big oaf. I always have.”  
  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
  
“Indeed,” Jaskier laughs, plucking once again at his strings with a thoughtful hum of his own. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, thanks for reading, comments are love, and follow me @ [tumblr](http://donneidarko.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> Hope y'all like it bc I jolted awake out of a medicated dead sleep after only 3 hours with this playing out in my head and instead of going back to bed I typed it up, and I feel like death but I'm pretty happy with it :P
> 
> chat me up on [tumblr,](http://jaskieralt.tumblr.com) or [twitter](http://twitter.com/bardwoIf) if you want, but I'm less active there.


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